Holding On and Letting Go
by Perditus-Inquisitor
Summary: AU Request: "Beckett's an international spy that is assigned to protect her predecessor's son, Richard Castle. What could possibly go wrong?"
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey, guys! I know, I know. I shouldn't start a new fic since I have to others to update, but I honestly love getting requests and adding them.**_

 _ **So, the request: "International spy, Katherine Beckett, protecting her predecessor's son from harm. What could possibly go wrong?"**_

 _ **Note: Any Russian that I use is mostly translated. I know some Russian, but not enough to be fluent or to say I am a master. So, please keep that in mind!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I own nothing!**_

 _ **Rated M for language and later chapters.**_

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His blue eyes flickered across the room for the billionth time that night, catching a glimpse of a woman clad in a blue dress that stopped mid-thigh. Her short, dark locks just tickling the gap between bare skin and where the lace of her collar started that. He hadn't seen her face, hadn't even recognized her as a guest he had invited to his after party, but he hadn't complained, really. She was gorgeous.

"Richard," a blonde called out, her lips nearly brushing his ear. "You have guests who are waiting to talk to you, and I have people to call to book tours," she hummed out.

"Right," he murmured, shrugging her off. "Who is that?" He asked, tipping his champagne glass in the directions of the woman, his blue eyes flickering off of her for just a second.

"Who?"

He turned back, the spot where the mysterious woman once stood, finding it now vacant and empty. She had just been there, hadn't she? Or was it his imagination getting him for the eighth time that week? He'd hallucinated black SUVs tailing his cabs and limos, men he'd seen hours or days before appearing wherever he had, but every time he turned back or called on someone, they'd be gone.

"Richard, you have to relax," the blonde insisted. "As much publicity as you would get for convincing the press you're on drugs, I'm sure that would be bad publicity," she pointed out. "I don't need your fans in a riot over some stupid act."

He sighed, a hand running through his hair as he looked around. Flickering from person to person, outfit to outfit, he dismissed his ex-wife, murmuring incoherently at what she had said. He didn't care about what the press thought, but he was starting to feel like a mad-man. Moving away, leaving the blonde stunned as he ignored her, he took a deep breath and tried his hardest to start a conversation with some of the guests.

However, ten minutes into his conversation, he caught the familiar blue out of the corner of his eye, turning to find her playing around the fire escape. Her delicate hand pressing against the door as she checked it for something, and for a moment, he waited for the alarms to go off.

"Excuse me," he murmured to the men he'd been talking to, stepping out of the poorly formed circle of awkward chit-chat. Setting his empty glass down, he started to make his way towards her.

The sudden jerk of her head caused him to halt, his eyes drifting in the direction she was staring at. One of the hired staff seemed to glare towards her, sweat dripping down his face. Blue orbs flickered back to stare at the woman, contentment and excitement sketched onto her feature as if she was waiting to play a game.

Tension built in the room. Thick and hazy, things blurred together, his chest desperate to inhale. Objects started to tilt and twirl, one step forward becoming too much for his suddenly heavy muscles, he greeted the tiles of the floor. Unforgiving, hard, sudden screams of horror and terror, louds bangs, and a flurry of feet, he was left forgotten. No one stopped, no one helped him breathe. His body had gone into complete shock and his jaw was locked in place as bitter liquid, a taste of something stale and tart, plagued him. His chest tightened in panic, his body limp.

 _I'm done. I'm going to die._

But then there was sudden warmth as he was rolled onto his back, two hands moving to rest against his cheeks while he was positioned comfortable into someone's lap. He couldn't turn his head, couldn't see anything but the blinding lights of the building.

"Mr. Castle," a voice called out, sounding far and muffled against the blood rushing in his head.

His blue orbs fought back against the tears forming, fear building inside of him. Suddenly, soft hazel eyes were hovering over him. It was her. Had she done something to him? Why hadn't she run?

"This is going to hurt," she told him, her voice thick and deep with an accent he had yet to register completely, but he decided he didn't care.

 _What's going to hurt?_ He desperately wanted to rock away when he felt one hand move from his cheek, moving to grab something beside her. He watched intently as she raised a syringe to her mouth, teeth biting the cap as she unsheathed it.

Getting ready, she seemed almost apologetic. "This will help with your paralysis," she explained. "And it will react against the poison in your system," she murmured, fist wrapping around it before pounding it down against his chest, the needle piercing through his suit.

His body twitched, arching up as the pain coursed through him. _Sonovabitch!_ He wanted to swear, to ask her what the hell was going on, but the pain eased away as her thumb stroked his cheek for a few moments before she moved, gently resting his head against the tiles.

"You will have to wait a few minutes, Mr. Castle," she told him. Her delicate fingers scrapped against his hand before a heavy metal was pushed into his palm. "In case they comeback, you should find this…. Eh… useful."

With that, she stood. His head lolled to the side, watching as her black heels moved against the floor, the woman all but jogging in them with a gun in hand. Where did she even keep a gun? Had she taken it from those who started shooting before? He blinked, mouth parting but nothing coming out as he struggled to move.

"Они взяли по лестнице," she yelled, but he had no idea to whom.

 _Russian_ , he thought to himself. _Her accent is Russian_.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hey! So, I know this chapter may be a little boring, but I need to create the story first, right? Give a little background?**_

 _ **I promise, the next chapter will be a lot better. A lot more exciting.**_

 _ **Disclaimers: I still own nothing.**_

* * *

She sighed, leaning against the wall and peering out through the side of the blinds. Stuck in a stereotypical, run-down motel room was just about as appealing as it had been in the movies, but she had been stuck in worse. Roaches crawled around on the floor, scattering to a dark corner or seeking shelter under the rickety night-stand. Wallpaper had started to peel in several corners of the room, water damage evident as the floral print peeled up. The untouched bed held scratch sheets that probably would look like it had been splatter painted under a UV light.

A shiver ran through her at the thought, but she didn't have much cash on her and she knew her card was tapped at the moment. Part of her wondered if it would have been wrong to take money from the writer a few days before, using it to at least fund her stay until her mission was over. After all, she wouldn't have minded a fee for her troubles and he seemed to get off on writing fiction about her profession. A scoff sounded in the back of her throat, thinking about the writing. _If he only knew half of his common misconceptions about spies._

A soft click as the door knob was turned caused her attention to snap in the other direction, eyes flickering to see who would walk through. She didn't bother to reach for her gun, more than ready for combat but doubting she'd end up in that type of situation. At the familiar fall of heavy footsteps, she looked back out the window.

"You know, I thought spies had better salaries," a man murmured, and by the time she looked back, she found him standing in the middle of the room, grimacing at the little pest scurrying across the floor.

"I get decent pay," she spoke, her hand moving to rub over her mouth in frustration. "However, I am work for old friend who was burned," she explained, biting back a growl.

Three years working in Kaliningrad, Russia and she left an accent she couldn't shake. Not yet, anyway. Being back in the states no more than six days, jet lagged, and sore from her fighting, it was a miracle she could even spit out English at all rather than rambling tiredly in Russian.

The Latino smirked a bit, knowing full well that his friend had been somewhere in Russia or she'd been forced into a Russian role. "You could always go stay with your dad," he shrugged.

"I'll pass," she quickly shut down the area of conversation. "So, what did you get on my two guys, Espo?" She forced out every syllable, trying to reteach herself the accent she'd been born and raised with.

"Nothing yet. I have the new guy running them, though, and collecting all personal information on them," he shrugged. "Lanie's been dying to see you," he finally murmured.

She only nodded in response, deciding not to comment. It had been three years since she left for Russia, but it had been seven years since she was "terminated" as a homicide detective. It had been a ploy to find a rat in the field that turned into busting an undercover operation between the cartel and a few uniforms. When she'd been tossed out of the precinct, she had strict orders to keep things quiet until things died down.

Being a spy hadn't been a clean job. If anything, it was messy and she already had blood stained hands. It was hard to trust people when her resources were limited anyway which brought on a list of rules she had started to collect and gather. Her predecessor even made a point of showing her a few first hand, none of which were pleasant, but all from which she learned from.

Rule #1: Every man for themselves.

Rule #43: Be careful who you trust. Looks can be deceiving and the cover of a book plays games to look appealing.

The first rule had been established during her first actual fight. They'd been hired to tail a gang in Japan and to retrieve a stolen USB. It held delicate information pertaining to the United States government's armed forces. The moment he got his hands on the tiny device, he was quick to get out, blind siding her when he made a left and she kept running straight. Four broken ribs, a busted nose, and a waterboarding session later, she found herself tossed out the back door and left to treat her wounds on her own.

She had refused to speak to her boss for months, hating the senior agent she'd found herself being forced to learn from: Jackson Hunt. Even now, the name still rattled a scoff from her, but he did his fair share of favors for. Both helped each other out then they could, and currently? He needed more help than she could possibly provide, only being able to babysit the man's son.

As for the forty-third rule? It had solely replied to her relationship with her informants and friends she could rely on. The Latino had been sworn by a code and the medical examiner her referred to, Lanie, had befriended Kate long before anyone else had. Both had helped greatly when she'd be in town on a case, asking them to run autopsy reports or to get information she didn't have access to or didn't have to access. However, that still didn't ease her distrust.

That part of her, the anxiety and fear filled vortex of doom, started when she was sent on her first mission with a new "partner." Five shots of tequila, a dingy hotel room, cuffs, and a knife to the throat later, she finally understood why most agents turned down drinks or at least managed to drug their acquaintances first. Some were double agents and others were just flat out snitches with the intent to kill if they had to.

"So, the writer," Espo started, wanting to fill the awkward silence and tension between them. "Is he like his dad?"

It wasn't exactly classified information to talk about the man in question. So, she tried to figure out a way to explain it without saying too much. "He is definitely Hunt's son. Perhaps a little more… eccentric," she tried, nose scrunching at the word. "But they're definitely related."

"When do you plan on seeing him again?" He waggled a brow.

She only rolled her eyes. "He has another party in two days. I'll go and keep an eye out."

"How do you know they won't attack him at his apartment?"

She gave a playful smile then. "I don't, but isn't that the thrill of it all?" She paused before sighing. "I may have hacked the surveillance cameras and if anything sets it off, if anyone passes through the field of vision on his floor, it goes off. I look at the feed and determine if the person is a threat or if they're not," she explained.

As the man opened his mouth, her phone had buzzed, vibrating in her pocket. When she pulled it out, flicking it open, she stared. Hazel orbs studying the message, her brows furrowed. "Черт побери!" She swore, stuffing the burner phone back in her pocket.

Esposito only quirked a brow and crossed his arms, waiting for her to talk in a language he understood. Though, when she looked at him, the sudden look of anger replaced with batting lashes and a dazzling smile, he sighed and grabbed his credit card from his wallet.

"I know you always pay me back, chica, but the last time I let you run wild with this, you spent twenty thousand dollars," he shot her a look.

"Your point?"

"You didn't even spend it on cool gadgets or get into a gun fight, Beckett," he pointed out.

Her hand quickly rose to silence him. "It's not Beckett. It's Katrina Mulnav. You should get into a habit of call me that, and," she snorted. "Why does everyone think agents and spies have all of these cool gadgets and get into gun fights?"

He only shot her a look, trying to figure out if she'd ever even had time to sit down and watch James Bond or Johnny English movies. Her schedule did seem a bit tight, honestly, and it wouldn't have surprised him if she hadn't. "What do you even need it for"

"He's going out to a club a tonight for a party," she explained. "If he's out in public, he's at risk, and I can't monitor him on the other side of the city. So, I need money for a new outfit and to get in."

He groaned and handed his card to her, losing it to one of the people he considered a best friend. "You better come see Lanie."

"I will," she nodded, promising him. "Are you two together yet?" She asked, sending him a look.

"About as together as you and your writer."

"I'm merely babysitting," she defended.

He rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He knew she returned favors, but this was more than just a favor to her predecessor. There had to be something that lingered or caught her interest in the person she was protecting for her to stick around and be devoted. She might have loved fights, but putting a civilian in the middle of it rather than just relocating them for a time was more than what she usually did. "Be careful."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thank you guys for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter!_**

 ** _There are a few grammatical errors, and I'm sorry for that. I'm trying to catch them._**

 _ **Disclaimer: I own nothing!**_

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The room was clouded with a thin haze of smoke and fog, the air reeking of sweat and sex. Bodies grinding against one another, moans of ecstasy, hands snaking up and under dresses. It was hot and dirty, reminding her of the one mission she worked in Ireland. To be more specific, it was labeled as an acid house party, which was just another name for a rave. The only reason she'd been there was to get information on a drug smuggler with an agent held hostage. Her job was to retrieve and terminate, a task she wasn't too fond of.

Killing was just part of her career, though, and when management called with the job, no one questioned it or denied. Burn notices would have been issued, government protection dropped. Friends and families would suddenly become targets, and agents more often than not had thousands of enemies. Her list was no exception to that. Enemies, enemies of enemies, former agents, and families of those agents, agencies she pissed off, other agents doing their jobs, "co-workers" and the list went on. However, that particular mission wasn't one she would have turned down due to the blood on her hands. It was just the close proximity.

Agents don't have telltale signs of being agents. They're taught to blend. With an alias, it's never a given that someone wouldn't catch on or that she wouldn't have a target on her back. Paranoia was easy to set in when she dealt with mafia and crowded places. If anyone saw her, if anyone pulled a gun, the bloodshed would have been great, blood splattered everywhere. Through the grinding, touching, and mixed movements of body motion, it was easy to miss key information.

That was what created rule 1, the golden rule.

Rule 1: Even your best friend can be your enemy. Don't trust easily, but don't look paranoid. Let hyper vigilance lead the way and beware of the Greek bearing gifts, even if you are Greek. You'll end up with a knife in your back, or at your throat, whichever they managed to get to first.

That moment was no exception. All of those people had been upper class with body guards, no doubt. Perhaps not in the mix of their dancing or enjoyment, but scattered around to ensure safety. All but the writer she'd been watching out for. Cocky, egotistical, and moronic, what his father told her about him was very true. He was stubborn and more than convinced he would survive. _He's also a playboy_ , she noted in disgusted, watching as the man danced with two women, both blondes.

She sighed, waving for the bartender to get her something to drink. There were two rules to keep in mind as an agent undercover. Especially if a case beckoned them from hiding.

Rule 3a: When undercover, blend in and belong.

Rule 3b: If noticed undercover, be the only thing noticed or abort the mission.

She, in this case, just belonged. Her body leaning on the bar top, half turned on the stool. A dress that was tight fitted, but covered her chest and clung to her thighs mid-way. Guys lost interest in women who were covered. Though, she still managed to seem important. She was just withdrawn.

Drink in hand, she took a few sips, trying to look as if she'd been absentmindedly thinking as she scoped out any signs of the men who had wanted to kill her client. Once again, the signs proved to be non-verbal cues. Ranging from small gestures such as tapping on a glass twice to a hand scraping through hair, she waited for any signals that combined to make chit-chat.

KBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKB

His eyes hadn't intentionally landed on her for the eighteenth time in a row, but she seemed so familiar. Maybe he bought her drink once before? Or slept with her? He hadn't known. The last few days had fogged his mind, but the brunette with her back to him seemed so interesting suddenly.

As he departed the two women, making his way to the bar, he realized who it was. _Russia_. He wished he didn't have to call her that, but "lady that stabbed him in the chest and saved his life" seemed a bit eccentric. He wasn't even sure how to feel when he saw her again, the idea that she'd tried to murder him running through his mind. After all, how many people had anti-virus for foreign toxins on hand? Was that even legal? Probably not, he decided.

His hand unintentionally rubbed against his chest at the thought, a slightly shaky breath pushing passed his lips. The police had said it was an attack on him, that he was the only one who had been served with whatever it had been. Anger, fear, and overall happiness flooded him. A thank you and a few questions sparking through his mind, he leaned next to her.

"Bartender, I could use something strong," he played off coolly, glancing at her and turning back to the man in front of him for effect. Then, he took another glance, pretending to be taken by surprise. "You!" He exclaimed, sliding onto the sit next to her.

He'd spent hours looking over the guest list, desperately seeking answers and finding none as to who she was. So, he figured she had a good explanation as to why she broke into his party and just so happened to have the medication she needed. As he waited for a response, he was taken to meet her hazel eyes, the green protruding through the brown. They were so much pretty when he wasn't dying and desperately gasping for air.

"Hello," she forced out, doing her best not have any traces of her Russian accent. It was hard not to curl her tongue or greet him in some other form or fashion. The barrier between foreign languages and English had been hard to adjust to, but once she had, they were harder to shake.

He extended his hand. "Richard Castle, famous author that you saved, but you already know that," he shrugged.

Part of her nearly acted on instinct, her thumb and index finger itching to reach out and pinch his hand, thumb pressing against the middle of his palm while her pointer finger applied pressure to the delicate bones of his hand, settling somewhere between his against the center. It might not have broken the bones, but it gave her an advantage of twisting his wrist and pinning him.

She didn't reach out to shake his hand, deciding against it. He could tell there was some sort of restrain to her movement, something she didn't want to do, but his move possibly offended her. To anyone else, they would have shrugged and thought it was part of her persona. "Don't I get your name at least?" He asked, pouting to get his way.

"Katrina," she murmured, sipping her drinking and looking forward as opposed to looking at him. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

English had been harder on pronunciation, but she managed to get through the sentence without giving too much detail about where she'd been. Setting her glass down, she let her finger rim the cup. Perhaps she could flirt her way out of conversation. Though, flirtation was a powerful force in undercover operations. It never ended well, but it often got the job done for women in her line of work. One glance, a bat of the lash, a small smile, it never hurt that much. Well, not until after, when the emotional debris would settle and leave her wounded. She'd chalked it up to that just being life, the way things had to be. She was a risk, love was a risk, and having emotional connections were just as risky. So, she avoided all real feelings and emotions, playing her role without hesitation.

That brought on the next three rules:

Rule 17: When playing your alias, stick to it. Don't hesitate, don't blink. It gives observational assholes a sign that you're not who you say you are.

Rule 26: Shake what your mama gave you. Anything is a weapon, especially looks. Use them.

Rule 2: Getting caught in a romance and actually caring wasn't an option when there were men who wanted you hurt and dead.

"How did you know that I was going to get poisoned?" He quickly cut to the chase.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured.

He frowned, blue eyes staring at her with question. "I think you do and I'm sure the police would love it if I called and said one of their key witnesses was here," he murmured, pulling his phone out.

This time, there was no hesitation as she reached out, snatching his phone and dropping it into her drink. It was probably bugged the federal government and those who wanted him dead. "Mr. Castle," she started, noting how his eyes just stared at the glass. Had there not been a small signal sent across the room, she wouldn't have taken her eyes off of his shocked expression.

Her eyes flicked up, focusing on the men. One stood by the door, the other across the room near the bathroom. Signing discretely, using more slang hand terms than anything, she tried to decipher them. Sliding off of her chair, her hand gently resting against the space between his shoulders blades, she managed to make out a few letters and gestures. B-_-M-B. _Bomb._ Even if she shouldn't have implied it, she realized she wouldn't have had much time to do anything else. When the man started to move his hand in motion of the 'wax on, wax off,' guy, she furrowed her brows.

His jaw was slack as he stared, but when her hand rested against his back, his mind was gone. Sparks shot through him, anger dissipating. What had she done to him? He was never so intrigued by a woman before, but this time? This person… she was something new, something different. His head turned, ready to make some sexual comment, but she seemed to be lost, concentrating.

"Stay put," she ordered, the thought suddenly dawning her. She was quick to disappear among the group of people, but she felt it shouldn't have surprised her when he followed. Trying to shake him off in the group, she got to the fire escape and shoved the door open, bells and alarms ringing as the sprinklers turned on and sprits the raving group into a frenzy.

Her hand quickly grabbed a chain that had been used to lock the door when there weren't people in there. Stepping out, her ridiculously elevated heels clicking against the pavement, she tied the chain on the bars of the double door and took off for the parking lot to scout for the red Ferrari he drove.

The thing about car bombs? There were only a few ways to do it without it being noticeable. Tampering with the gas tank and piping or sliding a plastic device in the right place towards where the engine was. Sure, there were other ways, but none that some low class hit-man had time for, and she was sure that whoever had planted the car bomb, providing it was car bomb for him, wasn't one of the higher ups. Who even signaled code in public when they could possibly be getting watched?

Taking a deep breath and getting down on her knees, rolling onto her back, she managed to get under the car and checked the gas tank and piping to make sure they hadn't been tampered with. Delicate fingers made their way around the bottom of the car, trying to make sure all was in place and sounded before she scooted, turning around her so she was positioned at the front of the car.

Looking up between a small gap, she sighed and tried moving her hand between the metal pieces. Footsteps neared as drenched guests climbed into their car and decided she only had a few minutes before he'd join them, giving up on looking for her. Damn it, she couldn't get her hand up far enough.

"I promise, mother, everything's fine," she heard, body tensing. So, her timing was off. He was closer than she thought. "There wasn't a fire…. The woman from a few nights ago was here and set them off….. I know, but I want anwers," he protested.

The tips of her fingers just grazed the plastic, but when she curled her index finger in, she soon realized her bracelet was caught and something sharp had started to dig into her skin. So, maybe these guys did know what they were doing. Partly, anyway. A well placed knife or pin made a person thing and choose between what they'd rather go through.

"I'll be home in twenty minutes," she heard him insist, the car door opening and shutting.

Her heart hammered in her chest, adrenaline running high. Back pressed against the ground, tiny pebbles and rocks pressing against her neck, the pavement harsh against her head as she re-positioned herself to get a better grip, she closed her eyes to focus. Teeth pressing into her cheek to keep any cries of frustration from escaping her lips. It was going to hurt like hell, but she had no other choice.

The jingling of keys rattled above, his hands trying to find the right one before he dropped them. "Mother," he groaned. "I'm soaked and cold. Can we please have this conversation after I get home?"

Two men watched from the building, their eyes falling on the expensive vehicle and man inside. His hands grasping the keys off of the floor, he picked up his keys and found the right one again. Sliding it into the ignitions, they waited for an explosion that never came. As he backed out of his spot, tossing his phone carelessly to the passenger seat, he was taking off towards his home.

KBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKBKB

Harsh breath, a tight chest, and the trickle of blood down her arm, she laid there for a minute. Bracelet caught and clanging around under his car, she figured it was better than a bomb. As she raised her once pale, delicate flesh to address the cut, she couldn't help but look at the device. Taped to it was a phone, and not one wired to set the bomb off. No. It was there to make a call, but to who and why?

 _Who the hell-?_

As if her thoughts were heard, the cellphone rang, 'UNKNOWN' lighting up against it. As she tugged it off, she flipped the screen open and accepted the call. The normal person would have asked who it was or answered with their name, but she stayed silent. It had been something she learned long ago and a rule she made for herself.

Rule 21: If you're the intended target of any call or operation, let them talk and come to you.

"Agent," a male voice greeted lowly. "You seem to have a problem interfering with my work and it's really started to bother me."

"You're trying to murder my client and that's really starting to bother _me,"_ she replied.

He hummed as if thinking something over. "You're playing a dangerous game, and next time, you'll leave with more than just a little cut," he finally stated and then there was silence as the line went dead.


End file.
